


Tenth

by isitandwonder



Series: Sherlock Advent Calendar [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-05 23:36:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5394467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Punch is almost always a recipe for disaster...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tenth

“Jesus… Sherlock… if I'll find out who spiked the punch, I'll swear...” But John couldn't continue as a wave of nausea required pressing a hand over his mouth in order to avert being sick all over the back seat of the cab. The cleaning fee would just be horrendous, thus perfectly adding to an utterly ruined evening.

They had been invited to a Christmas do at NSY. Sherlock, of course, hadn't been in the least inclined to attend, not until John had bullied him into it anyway by threatening to throw away all the accumulated fungi in the fridge. (Sherlock insisted they were some kind of experiment but John secretly believed that Sherlock had just been too lazy to bin some expired foodstuffs and was now too vain to admit it).

He should have listened to Sherlock, though. He had rightly predicted the course of the evening: cans of insipid lukewarm beer (Carling, for god's sake!), sweet wine from cardboard boxes, cheap bubbly and only crisps and nuts for nibbling, supplemented by intrusively loud 90ties pop music interlaced with Christmas carols.

And, of course, a bowl of heinous punch.

When they had arrived half an hour late – eliciting some fruity comments – several other guests had already been tipsy to say the least. As the evening wore on the booze flowed freely, not improving the conduct of the guests.

Around half past nine, Anderson was groping Donovan ferociously in a sadly not dark enough corner while Lestrade sat next to a young and patient WPC, lamenting his latest divorce. Even Dimmock seemed pissed, leaning against the wall, scornfully eyeing the flimsy Christmas decorations while obviously having trouble blinking the tinsel into focus.

Sherlock had silently endured the dreary and rather cheerless atmosphere, just taking one look at food and beverages on offer before deciding to abstain entirely, shying away in barely concealed abhorrence as someone had tried to press a plastic cup of red wine into his hands.

This had been a very wise move as it turned out because John, on the other hand, had decided to cheer up by helping himself generously to numerous beakers of punch. Sherlock had watched his flatmate increasingly concerned as his spirits heightened cumulatively with the accelerating amount of alcohol consumed.

Sherlock knew that John, despite having served in the army, wasn’t prone to heavy boozing. He also knew that punch was almost always a recipe for disaster. It became clear to him that it was time to intervene when John came back from the loo and had to steady himself with one hand against the corridor wall while the other desperately tried to stuff his hideous Christmas jumper – adorned with reindeers, bows of ivy and candy canes (where the hell did he buy such a monstrosity?) – into his trousers.

“John.”

_“Whatsitsherlock?”_

“John, I think you had enough.” 

_“NononononoImjuststartingtostartingto… youknow?”_ He made a vague gesture with his left hand towards the party zone. 

“I really don’t think so. Let’s go.” 

_“You’resuchawetblanket … wetblanket…”_

John then stumbled over his own feet and Sherlock had to grab him by the arm to steady him and prevent him from crashing gracelessly onto the vomit-coloured linoleum because John’s knees were about to give out. 

“Come on; let’s get a cab before you’ll be arrested for disorderly conduct.” 

John mumbled something Sherlock didn’t grasp while clinging heavily to his arm. To keep him upright, Sherlock pushed him up against the wall. 

“Stay here, I get our coats.” 

Sherlock entirely ignored the Constable who wished him a happy Christmas – must be a new recruit if he bothered – and effectively sidestepped every acquaintance in the room, returning to John some three minutes later with their coats draped over his arm. 

But despite his short absence, John had sunken to the floor, sitting with his knees pulled up and his head dangling down between them and Sherlock instantly hoped that he’d managed to keep his dinner down. He wasn’t particularly eager to clean up a sick covered flatmate in a public lavatory. 

But John was just dozing. Sherlock had to crouch beside him and shake him slightly to get his attention. 

“John, come on, get up.” 

“Can’t,” came a whine as an answer. 

“Yes, you can.” 

“Go away. Please, just let me die here.” 

Sherlock waited a few moments, then took John’s hands and pulled him up but had to grab him by the shoulders as John threatened to bump into him with his uncontrolled momentum, his head hitting Sherlock’s right collarbone, resting there. 

“Sorry… so sorry…” John mumbled against Sherlock’s body but he didn’t show any intention to move any time soon. 

The rudely ignored Constable from minutes earlier chose this particular moment to make his way to the toilets. The smirk displayed on his face as he took in the sight of a befuddled consulting detective apparently cuddling with his evidently inebriated blogger was wiped away immediately when met with an icy cold stare form Sherlock’s strangely pale eyes that had had much tougher East End crooks squirming in their seats in this very building. The newbie scuttled off into the restroom, his face flushed crimson. 

Left alone, Sherlock just draped John’s jacket over his back, then pushed him gently away but had to throw an arm around his flatmates shoulder and nudge him to get him going. John’s head now rested on Sherlock’s shoulder and because his eyes kept falling shut he nearly slipped a few times on the stairs. Sherlock had to grip him tightly to avoid an accident. 

Eventually they safely reached the ground floor and, after stepping outside the magnificently ugly modern concrete building, Sherlock encouraged John to take a deep breath before hailing a cab and bundling his flatmate carefully in its back seat. The cabbie frowned scornfully but Sherlock just handed him a tenner when announcing their destination, his crisp tone making it quite clear that, in return, he expected their driver to mind his own business. 

The cold air had improved John’s condition a bit but he still felt exhausted and queasy and the swaying of the car as it turned corners didn’t help. He was very glad to make it back home without throwing up. He realised that, at some point, he’d been hauled against Sherlock and just stayed in this spot, leaning against his bony frame covered in the warm, scratchy wool of the Belstaff. John couldn’t be arsed to move away, especially as Sherlock seemed content with it, if his arm slung around John’s waist was anything to go by. 

When they arrived at Baker Street, Sherlock silently paid before helping John extract his intoxicated body from the cab. Unlocking the front door und creeping up the stairs seemed to take ages but finally John was allowed to collapse onto the couch – under normal circumstances his flatmates natural habitat – while said flatmate took his time to meticulously hang up his coat before making his way into the kitchen, from where he emerged a few moments later with a glass of water and some aspirin, which were placed on the coffee table in front of John. 

“Take these. You’ll appreciate it tomorrow.” 

Sherlock skipped the tablets into the water, holding it in front of John. Their fingers brushed as John took the glass and gulped the still foaming liquid down. 

“Thank you… Look, Sherlock, I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be.” 

“It was awful.” 

“Not entirely.” 

John craned his neck as he tried to blink Sherlock into focus but his vision kept blurring. 

“Could you just come down here for a moment?” John eventually asked. 

Sherlock sank down on his knees in front of him and John suddenly felt both uneasy and excited. A thought crossed his mind: _In the morning, I would be able to blame it all on the drink._ But then he remembered whom he was dealing with and quickly abandoned the thought. He couldn’t refrain, however, from brushing a dark curl from Sherlock’s forehead with shaky fingers. 

“So, what was the highlight of your evening, then? Lestrade drowning his sorrows in beer or Anderson passionately snogging Sergeant Donovan?” 

Sherlock shuddered, obviously repulsed. “Please…” he gasped in a rough voice and John wondered again, if, under different circumstances, Sherlock would gasp and pant just like that? 

“No, seriously, tell me, what was there to enjoy about a crap party, ending with yourself carting your pissed flatmate off in a cab.” 

Sherlock’s eyes seemed to darken as an unusually soft smile played across his scraggy features but that was probably due to the gloomy light and anyway, it was gone almost as quickly as John had sensed it. But he couldn’t take his eyes away. 

“It was quite… interesting.” Sherlock blushed slightly, licked his lips and John watched his tongue dart out of his ridiculous mouth, mesmerised. If he’d just bowed his head a little bit… 

Sherlock abruptly got to his feet again. “You should sleep now or you’ll be sorry in the morning, John.” 

God, I will. “What a wasted evening,” John whispered. 

“I told you so in advance.” Sherlock sounded smug and high-handed but stood rooted to the spot, not moving, gazing down at John. 

“Fair enough.” John tried to get up but the room instantly started spinning. He swayed and sank back onto the couch. “Christ, I’m blasted. I don’t think I’ll make it into my bed upstairs. Might as well crash here.” He started on the cumbersome activity of removing his jacket and, after succeeding, triumphantly rolled it up into a truss to use it as a pillow. 

Only after slowly lying down and arranging his thankfully short limbs onto the upholstery did he become aware that Sherlock was still watching him. His tall flatmate stood in the dim room, only a few inches away from his makeshift shelter, looming over him. His facial expression was unreadable. John was too spaced out to bother, though, just closed his eyes and murmured: “Good night, Sherlock,” before drifting off to sleep, not feeling scrutinised but guarded. 

Sherlock remained standing next to the sofa accommodating his sleeping friend until he could be sure that John wouldn’t choke on his own vomit – an excruciatingly humiliating as well as unpleasant way to part this world – before strolling back into the kitchen to brew himself a cup of tea. 


End file.
